I came to Australia to write a book about home, moving here to search for a definition of the word. Instead, I found it. I see home in the beautiful Opera House that was once, to me,  just a picture the fish made in Finding Nemo. I see it in the sunset bat flight at Hyde Park, in the overcrowded shore line of Bondi Beach, in the yellow volleyball nets of Tama. I see it in the familiar and now deepened friendships with Nina and Hannah. And no matter how much it makes me tear up to think of it, I see it in every one of my new friends. In Ernie's hand gestures, in Ryan and Kinga's boundless energy, in Brad's curls, in Lex's Bonds bra, in Rob's rosy cheeks, in Kyle's way of saying chips.

9,935 miles away, homesickness couldn't exist against a beautiful day sailing in Balmoral with Lach, Tom and Hannah, who welcomed Nina and I into their place which we made our own for the first month we were here. Nevs, Nomes and the Manly boys helped me discover that I could encounter home in the most unexpected place — camping. I've never felt a stronger sense of belonging than on my 26th birthday on a boat, cruising by the Sydney skyline with TimTams and papaw (thanks Lucy and Danielle). I found home last Christmas when I spent the morning having breakfast with Matt, Jacqui and her family and then the afternoon playing flip cup with the people who became mine. And honestly, that is what all of you have been — my family.

I came to Australia to figure out how to define home. And for me, it's not a house, a city, or even a place. A 9-year-old child I interviewed yesterday defined home as 'life' and she seems to have sussed everything out 17 years ahead of me. (Private school kid — figures). There's a quote that's been playing on repeat in my head this past week and I hate to be mushy and cliched, but I feel I have to add this: 'Where we love is home. Home that your feet may leave but not your heart.' Thank you all for being my life, my home, and my happiness this year.

As you may have noticed I've been a tad emotional lately. And as much as I'd like to leave gracefully and spend my final days being extra amazing and funny and witty and reminding everyone how much they love me so that when I leave they throw themselves to the ground in anguish, instead I've been a sniffling, needy, desperate mess who shuts cab doors in people's faces because I've decided they haven't sufficiently expressed how much they will miss me. So right now my friends are probably just thinking about how fast they can push me out the door. There are many things about me that have changed but losing my ego and narcissism aren't on that list. So, I'm going to keep making everyone declare their undying devotion, and Ryry, I'm going to take you up on your offer to name the garden after me. But please, if you do get chickens and pigs, I don't want any Lo Juniors running around 123 Blair.

In all seriousness, I am beyond grateful that I have such genuine friends who make saying goodbye seem like the most impossible task. I love you all. And you all better freaking love me right back.

-Lo

P.S. I'm serious about the garden

Do you ever have moments where you stop and think to yourself 'This would make a great opening scene in a murder movie, starring myself as the victim?'

Thirty minutes after touching down at Chiang Mai, that was my exact mindset. So many of my laidback Aussie friends and fellow travelers told me not to overplan my trip to Thailand, despite the fact I was traveling alone and I'm a massive scaredy cat. I listened to them and didn't book a flight or hotel until the day before I arrived in Bangkok. Then, I attempted to book via my newly acquired iPod Touch. Bad idea. My mother had insisted I book a hotel and not a hostel, and who was I to deny my lovely mother? Sure it was $30 a night versus $10, but didn't I deserve to at least spend my first night in a nice place?

I cross referenced my lonely planet with Agoda, a discount hotel website, and found a four star place in old city. When I was satisfied with my decision I searched for 'Imperial' and booked the first one on the list. Here's a tip for you: if you are traveling in Asia, don't assume there's only one place in a city that begins with Imperial. I immediately noticed not only that mistake, but also saw that the dates were for three nights rather than the one I had intended. Freaking iPod. Things only worsened when I read the guidebook on my way to Chiang Mai and saw that 'resort' means 'not in an urban area' in Thailand.

It took me 45 minutes to get to my hotel from the airport. I passed downtown in the first five minutes. Let me tell you, there's little more alarming than driving through a foreign place in the middle of the night and being lead into the middle of a Northern Thai forest by a small man who barely speaks English. I gripped my cell phone close and then realized... I had nobody to even call if I got kidnapped. What is 911 in this country? Why did I not research this before? Why did I think it would be so exciting to travel alone? Interrupting my thoughts was the driver: 'You are SO far from town. Far, far away.' Not helping, thanks little man. Finally, we turned onto a gravel-paved road, driving for another 15 minutes with the lovely comment 'the hotel even far from main road! too far.'

When I walked up to check in, a small animal tail scurried under a stack of papers at the reception desk. I asked the receptionist when the free shuttle they advertised would go into the city the next day, and she said 'Well if only one guest, whenever you want.' I'm sorry, what? I hoped it was a language barrier that had me thinking she just said I was the only guest in this massive place. If I hadn't been on the verge of hysterical tears, I knew I would have found my situation funny. The security man lead me to my room, which was not as close to the main house as I would have liked. This was becoming a theme. I broke down as soon as I walked in the door and then comforted myself by going to the restaurant where there is food, wifi, and hopefully, other guests. (No such luck on the latter). Unfortunately it is an outdoor restaurant, and I was in the middle of the forest. Mosquitoes have never been my friends, but they were even less welcome since three people I know caught dengue fever in the land of Thai. I weighed the importance of internet with 'bone break fever' and opted for Facebook and Gmail. Obvi.

Everything is scarier at night, especially for someone who slept with the light on until she went to college. Okay, okay, if I'm alone in a new place I still do it. The next morning, with a clearer head, I realized I was a victim of white girl problems. Poor little Lorena, stuck in a beautiful Thailand forest in a three star hotel with a queen bed, a balcony, and a full staff of the nicest and smiliest staff in the world. Wah, wah, wah. Don't get me wrong, I still left the hotel as soon as I could (ps there were other guests that had been hiding as a cruel joke against me) and am now at a friend of a friend's house equipped with bug spray and a moto-bike chauffeur to get me anywhere in the city. (Thanks Chris). So Mother Dearest, don't worry, I have new travel buddies and won't get kidnapped in Thailand or Laos. Can't make any promises for Cambodia though.

(Sidenote: I will write about Ireland and my family adventures there, but it deserves accompanying photographs as Ireland is beyond gorgeous and cannot be explained in just words. I will upload photos when I am bored and have heaps of time with a computer and internet. Which hopefully won't be until August 7, since I will be too busy whining about traveling from one paradise to another)

Dear Bondi sky,

I give up. You win. Even if I go back and 'marry' America by returning there forever, you can satisfy yourself with the knowledge that I will always be emotionally cheating on the US with you.

Let's face it, the past month you have been treating me like shit. You've been cold and shut me out, hiding behind bleak grey clouds. And just when I thought I was in the clear, when I thought I could cope with the fact I'll be leaving you in October, you reel me back in. Do you have some special psychic warning signal, beeping 'WATCH OUT, LORENA'S GETTING OVER YOU. MUST DO SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL AND ROMANTIC'? Jerk. You're that bad-for-me boyfriend unapologetically keeping me away from my friends and family, who hate you, by the way.

One day, I will leave you. The time will come when I will wave goodbye and not look back. Well, that's not entirely true. Of course I'll look back, stalk you on Facebook, google you, frame photographs of us in my room and develop FOMS (Fear Of Missing Sky). And don't think I won't judge and hate every single girl who sleeps under you and takes pictures with you while wearing cheesy I <3 Bondi shirts. Ugh, sluts.

Anyways, mark my words, I will leave you. One day. Just not today.

P.S. Tonight took my breath away. Same place/time tomorrow?

Picture caption: Winter sunset from the rocks at North Bondi Beach

I’m usually not friends with the kind of people who don’t join Facebook. How am I supposed to shove my utopian life in their face if they can’t see my various albums? How can I make people that called me Bucky Beaver in middle school look at my perfect teeth and beautiful friends, if they refuse to join the social networking site designed to be the virtual equivalent of a daily high school reunion?

That being said, up until this week one of my closest friends, David Bordson-Bozzo was not on the great FB. Bozzo (yes, like the clown, but far more intelligent) has remained in my life, regardless of his lack of FB activity in the past. And now that he has joined the rest of us glorious lemmings I thought I’d support his decision by going through all of my old albums and tagging him in them, so he wouldn’t be marked as a leper for having too few photos. I dedicated myself to tagging him in everything, starting with my most recent albums.  I still have to write a newsletter, make three new Facebook albums, and a Groove in the Moo video. And all of those things are sort of overwhelming. Procrastination was necessary. Tagging … tagging I can handle.

But then I realized, if I continue on my tagging frenzy over the next few weeks, his most recent photos would actually be ones from him in college. So, in Facebook world he would be like Benjamin Button — growing backwards.

I was contemplating this conundrum while walking through Hyde Park in the CBD (central business district) of Sydney. Hyde Park has always reminded me of Locust Walk around the holidays, with it’s tree-lined sidewalk, lit up by fairy lights (what Aussies call Christmas lights). It was cold and raining, perfect Philly weather, and I was thinking about Bozzo’s birthday senior year where he dressed up like Flavor Flav. I was walking straight when all of a sudden, I instinctively found myself walking along the circumference of the circle pictured below:

Apologies to my Aussie and American friends who did not attend Penn (not because you didn’t get to have the wonderful Quaker experience, although I apologize for that as well), you will most likely not understand this post. (Ernie, please contain your FOMO.) But to the rest of my collegiate buddies… I think you know why I avoided walking straight through this circle. Yup. The compass.

To all you outsiders: the compass at Penn was situated on Locust Walk, and “legend” was (note: Aussies, I do not mean legend in the way you overuse it to signify an awesome person, I’m using it like “myth”) if you walked over it your freshman year before your first midterm, you would fail. Some socially inadequate human beings, because there were many at Penn, would awkwardly insist on doing this 100% of the time. I, being superstitious — not to be confused with socially inadequate, mind you — would only avoid crossing the compass when sober as a freshman, which was about 40% of the time. (Maybe less, but my parents read this now).

That being said, for some reason I resorted to first semester freshman year tactics while walking through Hyde Park. But, it’s not really a surprise considering the endless amount of parallels I can draw between my time in college and my time in Australia. Shirking all responsibilities and commitments has its perks. Grow up Peter Pan? Not likely.

Top Picture: Bozzo and I in New Orleans. Left Picture: No I have not turned into a slender businessman, this is a photo I stole off the internet since I don't have my camera with me to document the HP circle and needed to get this up soon so I could cross something off my to do list. Even if it wasn't ever on my list, I added it just so I can cross it off.

This is the 'Jucy Choppa' vehicle I will be traveling in for the next two weeks. That little tent on top will be my new home!

From April 17 until May 2 I will be joining Jeff and Magge on the Brisbane-Cairns roadtrip part of their hostel honeymoon adventure. I've already been warned that Jeff doesn't appreciate slowness/unathleticism and Magge blisters easily. The newlyweds have only brought one backpack each for their entire 13 month tour of the world, leaving me to cringe at the thought I had 'packed light' with 2.5 suitcases for my time in Australia.

While I cant offer anything in the athletic department, whatsoever, I'm already planning on being an upbeat T-Dubz (third wheel). The only time I will definitely be annoying is when we are driving. I recently received a $146 traffic ticket sent to my MOTHER in the states for going the equivalent of 5 miles over the speed limit. It is one of the few lovers' quarrels I've had with Australia** but I blame Victoria because NSW would never do that to me. Right? Guess I shouldn't test it, can't trust ANYONE these days.

Anyways, I'm off to pack up my little apartment and shed a tear or 100 about moving out. Now I'm moving to the traveling-intensive portion of my Aussie life. Bondi, I'll miss you. Don't worry — the Jucy Choppa won't have anything on you.

**I'm also fairly upset about the whole 70 degree weather thing. Freezing. Time to migrate up north for the winter ... and even though that is logically correct, it still sounds backwards to me. Love that being here is like living on groundhog opposite day.

I love April Fools' Day. I like to try to trick as many people as possible with the same joke as long as possible. Last year I convinced multiple friends of mine that I was engaged to Max. I was even debating buying a fake diamond ring, but opted against it. Max didn't find that as amusing as I did. Oops.

This year, I thought I could trick a few of my friends back home even BETTER than usual because it would be April Fools where I was, but not where they were. PLUS I could trick a lot of people in my office who are unsuspecting about my love of the holiday. But the best laid plan of mice and liars...

After we left our morning news meeting (complete with updates about Tiger and tampons ... you don't want to know) I mentioned to Lucy I was excited it was April Fools Day. 'Yeah, but it's after noon.'

Umm, so?

Apparently in Australia you can't play an April Fools joke unless it's before noon otherwise 'the joke's on you' (which doesn't even make sense). And in the spirit of being an honorary Australian, since I already messed up this morning and called an esky a cooler, I will follow the rules. Since I've been reigned in and have no fun stories to tell, thought I'd share a semi-relevant-to-this-blog article for your mild entertainment.

Restaurant charges 'thongage'

A DARWIN restaurant is charging patrons $10 for wearing thongs while they dine.

The "thongage" charge is announced in a sign on the door of John Spellman's Tramontana restaurant on McMinn St.

Last night Mr Spellman said the "campaign" was setting the tone for his "boutique" restaurant. "It's a formal restaurant - tablecloths, napkins. I wear shoes and socks," he said.

"There's actually a button on the register. I just put it on the bill - you don't have to argue about it. Two lamb chops, one thongage.'

Spellman's notoriety grew early this year when he gave a group of diners $10 and told them to go do McDonald's. They had complained about the service and wanted to split their drinks bill.

via NTnews

‘How cute are the Jolie-Pitt twins?’ -Me

‘Well the girl looks like a low-rent Shiloh. And the boy looks like a houso.’ -Lucy

‘Houso?’ -Me

‘You know, someone that lives in a housing commission. The projects.’ -Lucy